


the warm room

by slattern



Series: another mother tongue [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cunnilingus, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, Established Relationship, F/F, Ineffable Lovers, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Libertine Aziraphale, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Strap-Ons, Toronto, Vulvas all around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slattern/pseuds/slattern
Summary: Crowley has a surprise for Aziraphale, and she's going to give it to her.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: another mother tongue [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033242
Comments: 17
Kudos: 33
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	the warm room

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, once again I am coping with current events via self-indulgent smut. Enjoy my most nineties lesbian strap-on academic fantasy, as a special after-coup treat.
> 
> My writing is transformed and elevated by the beta-ing of [laurashapiro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/profile) who also came up with the title. Happy Birthday, my dear friend.
> 
> _In the warm room  
>  You'll fall into her like a pillow  
> Her thighs are soft as marshmallows  
> Say hello  
> To the soft musk of her hollows_
> 
> Kate Bush, _In The Warm Room_

_ University of Toronto, Emmanuel College (United Church of Canada), 1994 _

This environment begged for a louche pose, and Crowley obliged. The stuffy embrace of the grey walls, the undertone of mustiness that characterizes all formal structures throughout the commonwealth. The whole place is uptight as all heaven and she stands out like a jagged stain of red wine, a slash of black spray paint; “ _ smash the family! smash the state! _ ” 

Crowley’s coiled on a stone bench looking out on a damp green courtyard, sheltered from the light drizzle by an ivy-covered arcade. She crosses her legs at the knee, extended slightly too far to be considerate out into the walkway. A figure is moving along the arcade towards Crowley with forced casualness, pausing at the barrier of the demon’s legs to dither for a moment, obviously unsure whether to go around or awkwardly step over. Angelic eyebrows draw further and further together as her gaze travels up from scuffed black boots, matte black tights, tightly clinging black skirt and a men’s white v-neck shirt that dips indecently low on the demon’s flat chest, collarbones popping out under her skin echoing the arches of the building around them. “Fisterhood is Powerful” is written in marker on the shirt in large, slightly shaky black letters. Crowley can tell when Aziraphale reaches it, because her lips purse. A helplessly affectionate smile curls the demon's mouth, and she hasn’t got it stuffed away by the time their eyes meet. 

“Oh, don’t scrunch up that gorgeous face, angel. Sit down, I’ve brought you a patty , the goat you like.” Crowley draws her long legs up and out of the walkway, patting the bench at her side, reaching with her other hand for a greasepaper bag. She hands the warm, yellow pastry to Aziraphale, who sits somewhat stiffly on the cold stone. The angel noisily opens the bag, her mollified look followed by a sound of delight. She makes a closed-eye moan as she bites, the spicy, fatty smell filling the air under the balustrade.

Crowley has offered and denied endless types of pleasure to the humans over the millennia. But her own tastes have remained unchanged. She will never pass up an opportunity to watch Aziraphale eat. The angel is in her usual colour combination, cream and biscuit, hair short and parted on the side, her clothes soft and unstructured, t he whole draped in a very fuzzy, caramel coloured cardigan, with sagging pockets and suede elbows. She puts Crowley in mind of Barbara Woodhouse crossed with a caramel éclair, and the pleasure of watching her friend demolish a Jamaican patty [1]is strong, even for a professional demon. Bright yellow flakes of patty begin to dot the angel’s white linen bosom.

  
  


While finishing the patty and proffered ginger beer ( _ "ooh! That's got pep!" “well, you like a spicy ginger, don’t you?” “oh tcht!” _ ) The angel pauses to apply some more of the beeswax lipbalm tucked in the pocket of her ochre corduroy slacks, leaving a whiff of honey and mint and a layer of soft shine on her mouth. Before reviewing the most pertinent facts of the case, Aziraphale stands, tucking the gingerbeer bottle under the stone bench, brushing crumbs off herself. She looks around cagily before slinking (well as slinky as she could manage) into the shadowy stairway entrance in the building behind them. She’s hunched in the darkness, ready for skulduggery. A curt head movement indicates Crowley should join her there.

Crowley loves it when the angel lays it on thick. Aziraphale is leaning her head back against the wall, soft throat gleaming to Crowley’s eyes in the dim light. She’s posing like Lauren Bacall, Ingrid Bergman, doing a bit of a husky voice and everything, Crowley notes, weakly. If she was this far into character, odds the angel would be open to other kinds of play were good. Aziraphale is explaining to Crowley the reason for the assignment, something to do with someone who’d be a significant political figure in a few decades. Apparently the angel had read her dossier and assumed, correctly, that Crowley had ‘forgotten’ hers on the streetcar. Crowley watches Aziraphale’s lips while she talks, tucked together in their shelter of stone and shadow, the  _ wssshh  _ of the rain masking the low murmur.

Crowley emerges from her reverie as she notices the angel’s fallen silent. Generally Crowley got the gist of whatever Aziraphale was getting at, on the first pass. But today she is struggling to follow the conversation. Thoughts out of focus, Crowley silently takes in her angelic companion spilling out of her tweedy ensemble, roughspun white shirt buttoned up enough to only hint at the fullness of the breasts under it. Crowley’s fingers twitch, her palms hot. Oh shit, Aziraphale was still looking at her. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Let’s see what Agent Husky Voice might respond to.

“Sorry, angel…” Crowley allows a leer to spread slowly across her face like a shimmering oil slick. “Got distracted by, er… you know, those…” Long-fingers, blue-nailed and be-ringed, crook suggestively as they reached for Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Crowley!” A gentle slap from a soft hand bats the demon’s limbs away, and the voice is icy. But the angel steps towards Crowley as one motion with the slap, bringing them intimately close. Aziraphale tucks a fat corduroy thigh between Crowley’s, encased in a black high-waisted miniskirt, latex panels on the sides accentuating the curve of her small frame. The pressure of Aziraphale’s leg accentuates something else as well, gone unseen in the dark - the angel’s eyebrows draw apart this time as her eyes widen, thigh pressing into the firm outline of the silicone dildo Crowley’s got tucked under her skirt. 

“Oh-ho, Crowley! You got that in a shop!”

“Transgressive. Read it in a magazine. Everything is evil to someone, you know, makes my life easy. Joke’s on them.” She grinds against Aziraphale’s leg, feeling the press of the firm silicone cock’s base against her pussy, the give of the angel’s flesh under the thrusts. Aziraphale’s arms have gone around her waist, hands on Crowley’s ass pulling their bodies together with a kind of involuntary enthusiasm.

“I can’t… get involved in a… research project right now, Crowley. I’ve got a temptation and a blessing to get done, and the collective meets in 12 minutes.”

“Well, what if we had more time?”

“Never mind that, it’s raining! It is  _ cold _ .” Aziraphale makes a face of unfeigned horror.

Arms flung around the angel’s neck, Crowley whispers a silent “I adore you” into her friend’s collar.  _ “That’ll be the oxytocin, acting on the limbic pathways,”  _ she thinks to herself, and fair enough, but it was true all the same. This was an especially piquant flavour of feeling, a lemon, maple syrup, cayenne combination, sweet and tangy with a flare of heat at the end. Her love for Aziraphale varied, from corporation to corporation, the titrations a little different with each configuration. But this was a knock-out.

“More time and somewhere comfortable, then. Come with me, angel.” Crowley’s disentangling herself from the angel’s solid limbs before she’s done speaking, wrapping her fingers in Aziraphale's and tugging them both through the gothic archway opening in which they stand, up the half-dozen steps up to a dark wooden door.

With an impressive sequence of faces, Aziraphale wrestles with her various impulses before relenting and allowing herself to be dragged up the stairs, through the heavy door, down a dim hallway and into the type of room that dotted the whole campus, known to groups of grad students looking for a nook away from roommates, or harried associates managing a nap. This one is empty, and contains just one sofa, two wingback chairs, a console table littered with copies of  _ The Socialist Worker  _ and  _ Xtra  _ and half-sheet brightly coloured fliers advertising various meetings. Dominating the room is a massive stone fireplace, filled with orange embers and just the occasional lick of flame. The room is warm and bookish, with a comfortable, slightly musty smell that only emphasizes its coziness. Aziraphale’s face beams briefly before she visibly begins to remember her duties.

“Sit, angel.” Mouth already opening in protest, Aziraphale sinks into the upholstery of the fire-warmed sofa, as Crowley, standing in front of her, raises a hand, and snaps. Shutting her mouth in tandem, the angel looks puzzled. Nothing has happened. 

“Crowley?”

“Well, it’s a neat trick really, and not hard in this small space. Stopped time, didn’t I. When you step out that door, you’ll have 12 minutes before the collective meeting starts. Well, 11 and half, we did have to come up the stairs.”

“Crowley, really, are you sure you should do that? It seems a bit… I don’t know, excessive?” Aziraphale’s look up at her friend through her lashes is itself quite excessive.

“Nonsense. Just cross we haven’t done it before!” Nudging Aziraphale’s knees apart, Crowley tugs her own skirt down, lewdly highlighting the outline of the cock she’s wearing. Aziraphale licks her lips.

Crowley theatrically traces the bulge under her skirt for Aziraphale’s benefit, enjoying the stupefied look that’s coming over the angel, pink lips parted, still shining with lip balm. It’s a rare moment when Aziraphale lets herself look at her friend as openly as she likes, and the demon is ready to take advantage. Crowley can’t help it, she lays it on thick too when she’s wound up. As she raises a booted foot to the side of the sofa, the red and black swirl of the dildo peeps out from the hem of her skirt. The angel’s mouth shapes a silent ‘oh’ as she sees it. 

Crowley feels like Pam Grier, or maybe even a little Xena, looking down at the soft curves and layers of the angel. Aziraphale is in a different film entirely, still Bacall, looking up at Bogie. Crowley extends a hand under Aziraphale’s chin, tilting her face so their eyes meet. “I’ve taken care of everything, angel.” Crowley’s voice has gone a little gravelly, mid-atlantic. 

With a sigh and a twinkle of her upturned eyes, the angel concedes, opening her arms to her friend. Crowley was right of course. Aziraphale would never pass up an opportunity to fuck, or get fucked, more specifically and not irrelevantly, in a fire-warmed time-bubble, and now Crowley can kiss her as long as she wants. As long as they want. There is literally nothing to stop them. Sinking down into the angel’s lap, thin limbs pleasantly stretched by straddling Aziraphale’s bulk, her dick lines up against a warm corduroy crotch. She can’t possibly wait another second to kiss that delectable face, the greedy lips and tongue. 

Crowley feels the angel with her whole corporation, pressed against all that softness, the diverse textures of fabrics, the variations of flesh and scent across the angel’s body. As she sinks into Aziraphale, Crowley is already opening her mouth, starting the kiss with an inhale, and then a pointy lick that makes the angel giggle, before thrusting her tongue through those pink lips, the honeyed tingle of mint lip balm, punctuated with an idle thrust of her cock. Aziraphale gasps, and she arches up into Crowley’s grip, making the demon growl, and kiss her harder, clutch her closer.

_ This is such a good part _ ,  _ now,  _ the demon thinks fuzzily, some time later. She’s so aroused even her normally good low light vision is blurred, tunneled down to just Aziraphale beneath her. Aziraphale is moaning and sighing with pleasure, tasting Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley is drowning in sweetness now, the angel so soft and strong, she’s coffee ice cream and stroopwafel, spiced rum and pears. Crowley is nosing and nuzzling, licking the curves of her ear, mouth floating over the soft down of hair on her cheeks.

When Crowley returns to the angel’s mouth, even the deepest kiss isn’t enough, it’s not full enough, not inside enough. Crowley slides her long index and middle finger into Aziraphale’s small mouth, feeling the slippery muscle of her tongue, and then they’re kissing again. Crowley’s fingers are warm and wet now, tugging the velvet inside of the angel’s cheek, filling her mouth with tongue and fingers for a moment. Then spit-wet fingers grip into Aziraphale’s short hair, holding her head steady above the sofa back. Overcome by the energy of their pose, the hair pull, Crowley ruts her cock down against Aziraphale, who pushes up into it with a groan.

Crowley rocks her hips back and forth, pressing the length of her shaft against the angel, she can feel the slip of Aziraphale’s swollen cunt lips, the thick fabric of her slacks pressing into her flesh. With a deliberate drag, Crowley pulls down Aziraphale’s body, and then swings a leg off, poised kneeling on the sofa to pat her hip.

“Get up, let me get my hands on that arse.”

Aziraphale turns, swaybacked, under Crowley’s touch. As much as she loves to kiss and caress the angel, Crowley can’t resist touching her this way, positioning her body with firm hands, feeling the flex of muscles, the warm solidity of flesh as she leans her head and arms on the padded back of the couch, patted into place by the demon’s touch. Leaning over her back, reaching around her body in a possessive embrace, palming the angel’s breasts, belly, feeling the weight of them. Crowley unbuttons the trousers, tugging them and the cotton boxer briefs underneath down her friend’s thighs, skin golden in the firelight. Aziraphale’s long cardigan spills over her hips, covering her to mid thigh, at least until Crowley, pulling a convenient ottoman into place, takes a seat at eye level to Aziraphale’s tailbone, sliding her fingers up the backs of the angel’s legs, raising the hem of the cardigan with a dramatic flourish. 

“Ah, that’s what I want. That beautiful pink arsehole. Those fat cheeks.” Crowley pinches the soft overhang of one buttock, tugging gently to open the angel, small gold-furred pucker visible, cunt lips parting slightly with a moist noise. Aziraphale makes a mewing sound, sinking her face into the upholstery. Crowley smiles, and her tongue forks in her mouth. She sinks between Aziraphale’s cheeks, her tongue tickling and teasing at this furthest reach of her friend, who cries and thrashes and moans most satisfyingly. Aziraphale truly excels at this, receiving service. She is gracious and warm to everyone who waits on her of course, but her appreciation of the type of attention that only Crowley can give is an intoxicant the demon can’t do without.

She keeps up the attention with her snakey tongue, until Aziraphale is humping the air and sobbing in frustration, and then a little longer still. Crowley can feel the base of the cock slipping against her clit, everything is soaking, she’s been leaking into her underwear and through onto the harness straps for a supernaturally long time. Crouching, Crowley shifts to her (mostly) human tongue. A tingle of magic she’ll think about later lets her take a fresh taste of angel, tongue flat against her clit, red and plumped, a cherry on the syrupy ice cream of angel cunt. They moan, echoing each other. Crowley’s thumbs pull the angel open, lips held taut, tugging her bud onto the demon’s warm tongue.

She could make the angel come like this, she knows. There was a memorable time they’d been priestesses. It had been a leather trunk, not a sofa, and a chiton, not a cardigan, but the basic configuration was close enough. But that’s not the plan. She’s got an arc going. Even in this room beyond time, there has to be enough of a narrative to this encounter to satisfy her angel. So Crowley’s going to drive their scene to a climax.

Crowley tongues the angel’s pink clit until she’s crying out low and her thighs are trembling next to Crowley’s ears. Crowley stops, licks slowly up the inner lips before sliding two fingers inside, pressing downward into Aziraphale’s g-spot, as soft and eager as the rest of her. Aziraphale’s long wail of frustration, and the spasm of her cunt around Crowley’s fingers bring a fresh gush of wetness to the demon’s pussy. They go through the cycle a few more times, until the pitch in Aziraphale’s cries has Crowley worried that she risks a mutiny.

Pulling moisture from the air into water-based lube is such a meagre effort as to not even register over the ambient evil of an institution of higher education. Crowley pushes her skirt up her hips and slicks up her cock, adding a touch of heat -  _ touch of class, more like _ \- Crowley thinks, nudging the thick, slippery head of the dildo against the frothy meringue of Aziraphale’s cunt, gripping a round hip firmly enough with the other hand to leave white marks for a moment.

They groan a harmony as Crowley slips in, first the flare of the head and then sinking all the way, the cold metal on the harness making the angel hiss before Crowley’s finger wave has warmed it. Crowley leans over to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, gripping her close in an embrace that wraps around the heavy hang of her breasts. Soon they’re sighing together, long slow thrusts from the demon interspersed with mostly wordless pleas and thank yous from Aziraphale. 

“Good, you’re so good to me Crowley. You’re so good.” Aziraphale was panting. Crowley knew she had her eyes pressed shut, could imagine the sheen of sweat glistening in the down on her upper lip. The angel mostly moaned and cried and groaned her pleasure, but ‘good’ was her favourite word to gasp in her transports. Hearing it now brings a clench to Crowley’s cunt, a wet throb, before she pushes deeper into her friend. 

“Is this good?” Crowley slowly pulls out from the angel’s depths, straightening so she can watch her cock come almost all the way out, plum lips clinging damply to the bulb at its head, Aziraphale moaning and wiggling in protest.

“Yes, yes it’s good, you’re so good, you’re so good to me, please, darling.”

With a slow pressure, Crowley fucks back into Aziraphale’s cunt, the grip tight but welcoming. She glides her hands between the softness of the angel's back and her cardigan, relishing the warm cushion of body heat. With a hum of ardour, Crowley grasps the angel, pulling her almost upright as she kneels on the couch. Their bodies are pressed together, the head of Crowley's cock thrusting shallowly into Aziraphale, who arches her back until Crowley favours her with a few slippery strokes across her clit.

"Good." Crowley whispers warmly into the angel's ear, before lowering her gently back onto the support of the sofa.

They fuck for a long time, up to the limits of the corporations, at least without starting to get into some miracles, so Crowley begins to let things build. A little speed. Fingers a little longer in the angel’s petals. She feels her own altitude begin to rise, ramping up towards freefall. With a dextrous left hand, Crowley is stroking the angel rhythmically, pressure varying but strong. With the other she deploys a deliberate snap, groaning and stuttering into Azirphale’s cunt as the vibrator tucked in her harness starts, electrifying her clit, into her mound. She can't take this stimulation for long. Intensity peaks as she presses her body flush against the angel’s, and ebbs slightly as she withdraws. A deep thrust pushes the vibe right at the base of Crowley's clitoris, it's volcanic, an implacable, slow, hot lava flow and her fingers strum on Aziraphale now, their rising cries escalating the tension.

When Crowley comes, flying over the edge of the cliff, she morse codes her pleasure through her fingertips onto Aziraphale’s clit, feeling the angel stiffen and curve under her, cunt spasming, sobbing gutturally as she joins Crowley in flight.[2]

Crowley comes down in the best way, wrapping her arms around Aziraphale, nuzzling into the warm flan of the angel’s neck, smelling like vanilla and the fireplace and their sex. Aziraphale is still panting, her body moving in small tremors as she rides the thermals of her climax down, and with a kiss to the angel’s skin, Crowley anchors the descent, thrusting slowly in and out of her cunt, which is grasping still. When Aziraphale’s at last gone soft in Crowley’s arms, the demon twists to unbuckle her harness, cock coming free of the angel with a slurping noise. Crowley’s got Aziraphale’s trousers pulled up and cardi pulled down before the angel’s fully cognisant again. Although the demon’s left the trousers unbuttoned, and in fact has her hand down the front of them, cupping a slightly twitching, very wet angelic cunt. So they’re spooning on the couch in front of the fire. “ _ I adore you _ ” Crowley mouths into the sweaty back of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Crowley, dear?” Aziraphale sounds warmly sated but alert. “You know what I can’t help thinking… Why should I do a blessing and a curse? They cancel each other out, right?”

“Well, yes, that’s the whole point, angel, why we have the Arrangement, so we don’t both have to be bothered.”

“Yes, but, I mean, why bother doing them at all? We can both “bugger off” as you say and it will amount to the same.”

“Your lot will be expecting a blessing, won’t they? Don’t they have logs or something? Mine will be expecting to see a curse logged, for damn sure.”

“Hm…perhaps we could just make sure we get off a blessing, and a curse, and the wherefores are up to us?” Aziraphale’s voice had taken on a custardy smugness.

“Well, I did use a curse to get off.”  _ That was a fun thing to say _ , thought Crowley.

“You what? Whatever do you mean?” 

“The little vibrator in the harness. Non-rechargeable batteries. Evil. Used a curse to get the thing going. Worked a dream.”

“You’re a marvel, my dear.”

Crowley responded with a rather snuggly embrace from behind and a rather less snuggly but still soft thrust of her hips against Aziraphale’s backside.

“So… this time thing. We can just do this…?” The trailing off of Aziraphale’s question shows she already knows the answer.

“Can’t do it all the time, I'm afraid, angel. Would get noticed after a bit. But I think we should be fine if we save it for…special occasions.”

“Special occasions? Like what?”

“Oh…let’s say birthdays.” Crowley ducks her head again, forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Birthdays! We don’t have birthdays!”

“Once a year then.” Crowley smiles into the coffee-with-cream softness of Aziraphale’s cardigan. “Once a year I’ll stop time for you and we can do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” Aziraphale tries to sound casual, and fails.

“Yes. Whatever you want.” Crowley hitches up on her elbow to see her friend’s face in the firelight.

The angel contemplates Crowley’s answer with a look of interest crossing her satiated features.

“What about what you want?”

Crowley tightens her hold on Aziraphale, squeezing her hand on the angel’s mound while pulling their bodies close on the sofa.

“I want you. There’s never time enough for that.”

  
  


“How could you deny me like this, Crowley.” Aziraphale works her way out from the demon’s embrace, turning to look at her friend reproachfully. 

“I want to give you things my darling.” The angel’s voice is tender now, throaty, her gaze sincere.

“Oh for Hell’s Sake. Yes, once a year I would be most delighted to stop time so you can fulfil a quota of my most perverted fantasies. How’s that?” Crowley growls, but she doesn’t hide her smile, eyes crinkling as Aziraphale joins her, giggling, and they twist and turn together on the sofa to watch the flicker of the embers, talking softly and stroking one another, exchanging kisses and endearments. Eventually the stamina afforded by a single Jamaican Patty runs down, and they slip out of the room. Crowley snaps their window of time shut, and Aziraphale leaves a fog of blessing to bring undisturbed napping to the room’s next weary visitor. It’s still early, they’ve got eleven and a half minutes plus the three or four hours of meeting -- now successfully buggered off of. They’ll get noodles on Spadina before parting ways. A blessing, a curse and a gift, accomplished.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [Jamaican patties](https://torontoist.com/2011/02/historicist_the_toronto_patty_wars/) are delicious.  
> 2\. Tip of the hat to [What Hath God Wrought](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26994637) by saretton, the Telegraph AU that made me cry and is 100% the reason that the eroticism of the movement of a finger on a telegraph knob came spilling out of my dirty mind. Go read that fantastic story.


End file.
